checking in…

Turns out I still have a pad here. Who knew? So, it seemed meet and right that I should stop by and look around. There is a lot of dust, I have to say, and it’s cold. I’m afraid a pipe might have burst in the basement.

So, yeah, here we are. I make no promises.

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moving again…

We are leaving The Pebbled Shore, and returning to our old haunt at Endlessly Rocking: This is merely the intermediate state of the thing. There are changes coming, and I hope to reach a great many more potential readers when it’s all just right.

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My Own Secret Poem


We might hope the sun will cease
to kill and make alive after some millions
of years have passed and seas have
boiled away leaving sand and stone blown
smooth, that all seen and unseen will
be remade in fires of resurrection –
if we so hope as nights grow longer,
we will find an end even now to the pain
of a mind made mad, of a heart grown old.


Along the shore gulls at rest,
a small river forms as the tide recedes;
all who wish may come and drink
though the water is salty –
calcified fragments of a sand dollar
crumble in my hand, the sea
calm, a shimmering
lure in the slanting winter sun.

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It’s Just The End Of The Week

Rain wind and snow, a sore throat, a fever – it’s not the end of the world, it’s just finally *winter*. As for tomorrow, I suspect Roland Emmerich has cameras all over the world ready to capture footage of the nonapocalypse.

Y’all do realize that it would be a nonapocalypse even if the Sun exploded? Hello? Is this thing on?

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Previous Post

For some reason the line breaks don’t work. Sigh.

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The Iliad I.1-5, rough draft

Wrath – sing Goddess the accursed wrath
of Achilles, son of Peleus, which caused grief beyond
measure, hurled to Hades many valiant
souls of heroes, and made them spoils for dogs
and every sort of bird, as the desire
of Zeus was being brought to its fruition…

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Robert Fagles Annoys Me from the Grave

I’m so sick of hearing how great the translations of Robert Fagles are. They’re not bad, if you like poetry with no rhythmic and metrical energy and poise. He’s also too addicted to Pope – a fine poet, to be sure, but not I fear helpful to a translator.

In short, Fagles is overrated. Buy his translations for the essays by Bernard Knox, but leave aside the flacid poetry.

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